


Blame Game

by heartofstanding



Series: Sunflowers [2]
Category: The Hobbit
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Humour, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-25
Updated: 2014-10-25
Packaged: 2018-02-22 12:12:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2507321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartofstanding/pseuds/heartofstanding
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin's going to blame <i>something</i>, but he's not sure what.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blame Game

In the morning, he will blame the wine, he will blame Thranduil, he will blame the dragon, he will blame thick fingers that couldn't undo the laces on his breeches, and he will almost certainly blame whatever idiotic but supreme being thought that _Elves_ were a good idea when they were creating the world.

The only problem with that, however, is that most of it is a lie. He didn't overindulge on wine, he didn't touch the blasted thing. He's heard what Dorwinion does an Elf, and as much as he'd like to pretend that Elves are a bunch of lightweights when it comes to drinking, he has solid, indisputable proof that they aren't. His grandfather, Thror, could outdrink every dwarf in Erebor, sometimes twice-over. But when he challenged Thranduil to a drinking competition, he'd ended up slipping from his grand chair to pass out, face down, in the dog's dinner plate. Meanwhile, Thranduil had looked mildly bored by the whole experience.

Or at least as bored as an Elf could. Thorin's not actually sure Elves have facial expressions, just twitches behind masks of cracking plaster.

The point is: Thranduil was here before the dragon, there was no wine involved and the trouble with his laces is the last thing he should blame. And, he supposes, Elves do have their uses. Sometimes. They are rather handy to have on your side in a battle.

So, he blames the sunflower, which grows in a pot on the great window of Thorin's study, and he blames diplomacy that brings Thranduil back, and he blames every time Thranduil steps into his study, sees the sunflower and raises an inscrutable eyebrow.

And he blames Thranduil's hair, the gold of it dimmed by the dark halls, no matter how many lamps Thorin orders. The length of it is spread out like a river of dark gold upon the bed sheets and the blue eyes with stars in them are studying him lazily.

'You didn't bring me another gift,' Thorin says.

Thranduil's lips twitch, as if to arrange themselves in a smile, and he rolls over onto his back. 'Do you truly wish to force Kili to plant trees?'

Thorin sucks in his lip, considering. It might be worth it to see the look on Kili's face - and Fili's - but it is rather unbecoming for one of Durin's line. 'You could have bought me another flower.'

Thranduil laughs. 'I am surprised that the first flower I gave hasn't suffered an accidental knock to fall onto the mountainside below your window.'

'I wouldn't do that.'

The plaster mask stills, the cracks seem to show something - fire, perhaps - underneath as the mirth dies away.

'No,' Thranduil says, voice soft and considerate. 'I do not think you would.'


End file.
